Parting Solitary
by HeroineHargitay
Summary: Growing up, Olivia Benson is isolated from the world. The sole human knowing of her mere existence is Hugh Dunn and a four-year old boy who witnessed her kidnapping eleven years ago. Now, his suppressed memory is recurring in dreams. Finally, the teen voices his role. Will Liv fall victim to Hugh's dark and deadly criminal history? If rescued, will she adapt to society's rules? AU
1. Chapter One--Lone Girl

**A/N: FYI: CHANGES MADE! September 6, 2014 for both chapters 1 & 2! I'm updating and all. Please tell me if there are spelling/grammar errors so I may fix them! ;)**

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**CHAPTER ONE-Lone Girl**

He said he would return in time for dinner. Where are you Daddy? Please hurry because I am so hungry my bellyaches! I need something, anything, to rid my starving stomach. Please come home soon!

Thump, thump, thump, heavy thuds from work boots march down the wooden staircase. Pat, pat, pat, they clap along the concrete floor, crescendoing as they near the heavy-duty door confining me in my 14' X 8' room.

Beep, beep, boop, bop, the electronic passcode clicks when a four-digit code punches into the number padlock. Clink, the alarm dings, granting access inside.

Pssst, the steel door hisses as the seal of the door detaches from the door frame, revealing me perched on my bed.

"Daddy!" I smile, jumping off blithely. Racing to him, I almost knock myself to the ground due to the sheer force of my light body colliding with his sturdier, heavier weight. I wrap my bony arms around his developing pot belly, unwilling to liberate him. "I've missed you," I rasp, my voice sore from not having been in use since last seeing him.

"What did I say about getting up without my permission?" He booms crossly, his voice echoing due to the compacted space.

I flinch, scampering to my pallet in the far right corner, and immediately, I submissively lower my crown.

"Well?" He yells expectantly while grabbing my chin and yanking my stare to meet his stone cold eyes. His meat breath is hot on my panicked face.

"I'm-I'm s-sorry. I kn-know better, I won't do it again," I stammer, hoping for my apology to relax his angry mood, but in the back of my mind, I know my words simply are not enough to quell his anger.

He releases his hold on my chin and gently strokes my perspiring hairline with his calloused fingers. "Are you hungry," he proposes in his kind, raspy, and baritone voice.

My stomach grumbles in response, so I blush and look away, a bit embarrassed. Still taken aback by his sudden temper change and lack of punishment, I nod once. When I glance up to inspect if his emotion is still caring, I instantly notice his face has hardened once more. All over again, I'm on edge, waiting, unsure what I did to upset him. Then the reason dawns on me.

"How were you taught to answer?" He barks, making my appetite vanish automatically. He scrunches his fist into my shirt collar, lifting me to stand on my tiptoes. "Huh? Answer me you little Piece of crap!" He snarls, his spit splatters across my scared face.

I squint then avert my gaze to the ground passively. "Daddy, I'm sorry! I just for-forgot is all. Yea-Yes, I am hun-hungry," I hyperventilate and scuffle my toes on the floor, trying to gather room for my oxygen-deprived lungs.

He yields his fist; my shirt wrinkles and protrudes from my chest. Urged to flatten the plain, baby blue, cotton tee-shirt, I resist my impulses. Knowingly, I keep my gaze glued to the ground. Studying his filthy, tan construction shoes, I note they are caked in stone, dirt, grass, flaky cement, and dust residue. Suddenly his boxer paws unleash my tattered tee.

Wham! I am so caught off guard at his blitz attack. My face flushes on impact as my head whips diagonally to my upper right. My whole body spins, stopping abruptly, forcing my center of balance to falter. Staggering for stability, my feet twist and turn, until I faceplant the cinder block wall beside me. Gravity overcomes me, causing my legs to buckle as my body crumbles haphazardly. Don't cry, don't cry...

Awkwardly, I rest on top of my legs too stunned to adjust in to a more bearable or comfortable seating arrangement. Although the wall acts like an ice pack to my inflamed cheek, the healing properties do not extend to reduce my distress of a further assault. Out of my watery periphery a shadow shifts swiftly, but my mind is addled from Dad's blow. My brain is incapable of processing any circumstances in their actuality. I flinch as my side bangs is swiped off my forehead. My body tenses, stiffens like a corpse in rigamortus, yet I tremble like a leaf awaiting for his next move.

Dad's coarse knuckles massage my unharmed cheekbone, and somehow, I manage to withhold my tears, for now. "Do you know why you were punished?" He prompts bitterly, sounding as threatening as a major storm warning.

"Yes, Dad-Daddy. I'm sorry for-for not speaking wh-when spoken to," my breath hitches as I try to smooth them.

"And…" He presses, slightly adding unnecessary force to my pulsating temple.

"And for moving with-without your permission," I add a bit more in control of my tone.

"Good girl," he nods, forgivingly. Dad's voice is still laced with coldness. He stands, ambles to my breakfast tray, and plops the food, from the Burger King bag at the door, on top of the cheap plastic. "Now eat," commands he monotonously as he locks the door behind himself and climbs the stairs.

I shakily collect my nerves, retrieve the abandoned tray, and return to my pathetic twin-sized mattress. Raising the wrapped burger, I hesitantly whiff in the scent. Fish sandwich, my nose deduces. My chewed-off fingernails peel the thin wax-like paper aside, unraveling the plump sandwich. Wanting to wisely savor the burger, my growling stomach quickly overrides my brain's desire and wolfs the flounder down the hatch, leaving no crumb left behind.

Licking the tartar sauce clean from my lips, my mouth grows watery for more. My mind reminds me that my next meal will likely recur between the end of tomorrow, in the middle of the following day, or during the waking hours of the third day. If I am fortunate enough.

Dad claims in order to fully express thankfulness for simple necessities, such as food, one must go without. So, I push my burning hunger on the back burner. Until Dad delivers, my mind replays in the taste of the meal.

To experience the memory in full enhancement, I close my eyes, and welcome my senses to heighten. My nostrils inhale in the aromas of the condiments that once sat on my tongue. My mouth salivates, remembering how flavorful the relish, fused with the flounder, coated my taste buds. So good…so, so, very delicious.

* * *

My eyes are sore, another sleepless night owed solely from night terrors brought on from my dreams. I lay quietly, counting sheep, though I cannot understand why I bother. Sheep never helped me anyway, except to pass time, so I continue to count: 5,207 sheep, 5,208 sheep, 5,209 sheep…

Soon my mind tires of sheep, so I review Dad's Rules. I shall never forget them, that would be a sin! All of his rules are to be followed on command, and to ensure I remember them Dad demands that I be prepared to recite them at any given moment.

All of his rules make sense I suppose. He demands utmost respect nothing less than perfection. Perfection is his standard, a standard I rarely seem to meet.

Repeating them over and over as not to ever forget them. Dad adds rules when he chooses, and I expect the next rule will develop soon. I ought to remember all of them, Dad warns, or else (say no more).

Following his rules is easy to say, harder to do though. Concluding from countless penalties, I have learned that moving tortoiselike or spending too long to engage in a task results in a punishment: harsh words, a beating, prolonged wait for a meal, or perpetual isolation.

Though all punishments are difficult to bear, isolation is bar-none the worst. Solitary, with no one to communicate, to play, to laugh, to interact with, after an extended period, is death-like. Isolation is what I live in, for these walls bar any contact with the social world that I am aware exists.

Sometimes I dream for a differently life, in the social world.

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"Outside is an inhumane, cruel world," Dad describes on the few occasions I profess about wanting to escape from my cell. He reiterates, "There are very bad people out there who want to hurt you, to snatch you into their own dark interests, to haunt and trouble you." "But here you are safe," he counters my insecure thoughts. "Here, with me, everything is as life should be. You have everything you need: food, water, shelter, safety, affection, interaction, and breathable air," Dad argues, further attempting to support his side. Furthermore, he testifies, "People out in that world have ample possessions. They know not how to be thankful, nor do they cherish their belongings. Children are as greedy as ever, those ungrateful little brats." He continues spitefully, giving the door the evil eye, "This generation is undisciplined. Humans speak their mind impulsively and excessively. Nobody needs their opinions on trivial topics like who is hot and not." He breathes in and then out. "People are absurdly vain. They mask their talents," he pauses to cluster his thoughts, "and divine beauty in dishonesty, thereby distorting their true selves."

His tone switches to a low and protective growl. Dad asserts coldly, "I will kill to keep you safe, untainted by their selfishness, their evilness. One tried to seize you before, so I had no other choice but to end him." He does not divulge into a detailed account, but he mentions the patrol officer who unwittingly hindered his rescue of me from my alleged junkie and apparently good-for-nothing mother.

"I am raising you to never be one of those people," he remarks tersely with much passion.


	2. Chapter Two--Piece of the Puzzle

**A/N: I apologize for this being so late! First my computer had issues, and then I just did not feel like writing, and of course writer's block. So Yeah, sorry. I am working on chapter 3. If you see any spelling/grammar errors, please PM me! I will change them ASAP! Here is Chapter 2!**

**BTW: If you see any Andrew's or Joel's in the story, just know that they are the original characters in my story. Sorry. FYI: for future reference:**

**Olivia Benson: unnamed girl**

**Elliot Stabler: Andrew Shelbern**

**Stephen "Steve": Joel S.**

**Any other names are as is because I am too lazy to make a new names for all the characters in this story. **

**Disclaimer: Elliot and Steve belong to Dick Wolf**

**Oh Yeah! I'm changing the title to "Parting Solitary!"**

**UPDATE: July 31st 9:38 am! Added more!**

**SEPTEMBER 6, 2014-I am updating this chapter today. Minor changes.**

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**CHAPTER TWO-Piece of the Puzzle**

"No! Stop please!" A woman's shrill rings in my evolving dream. "Please don't, don't hurt her! I'll do whatever you want, please, just don't kill her," she pleads helplessly, eyes wide and filled with terror. Her voice breaks, sounding like an whimpering dog who just had its tail crushed. Tears overflow her lower eyelids, creating a water fountain effect as they splash onto her rosy cheeks. "Come Back!"

Beep, beep, beep, my alarm clock honks, making me jump into high alert.

"Holy fudge!" I pant heavily, my heart pulsating as if I had just run a mile.

"Andrew, are you up yet?" Joel grumbles, like he does every morning.

Joel is my older brother, by a whole two years. He is most definitely not a morning person nor is he a night owl. In fact, he is not any type of time-of-day person. More recently he has been moody. He is happy one minute, the next on a rampage, trying to punch a hole into his bedroom wall. I think he may be bipolar, but my parents are those type who believe in the non-medication solution, believing that God and prayers will heal everyone's problems.

I remember once, when Joel was chatting on the phone with one of his high school buddies, and Haley, my thirteen year old sister was belting the chorus of "Since U Been Gone."

"Shut your freaking' mouth up!" Joel growls for Haley to quiet down, but the soundtrack from her radio/cd player drowns his cry, and continues blaring.

All of a sudden, from all the way in the underground garage, I jump when the interior walls begin to wobble. I bolt into the house, worried if it has been broken into or if our house is crumbling due to its old age.

Turns out, the only thing that got crushed was the sidewall of my brother's bedroom, which now has a permanent crater impression of his knuckles.

"Hurry the hell up!" Joel grumbles from the flip side of my door. "Don't make me miss the bus!" He threatens, I can picture the annoyance on his face as he descends the stairs of our two-story house. His feet scuff the hollow wooden steps. They creek and screech as if they were auditioning for a part in a horror film. Finally his hooves clatter on the hardwood in the foyer.

Stripping the white, plastic hanger of a plain, grey, sports shirt, I stick my head in the proper hole, and my arms in the sides. Ripping shorts out from the armoire, sitting only a couple of inches from the same wall that was punched, I yank them onto my waist. My socks and shoes fly on next, and lastly my favorite hat, once belonging to my father, rests on my blond crown.

Taking two steps at a time, I slide down the stairs into the foyer. My untied laces slap my ankles and calves the way a horse's tail does when flies nip at their heels.

"Drew, is that you?" Mother greets me wiping her delicate hands on her buttercup colored hand towel. Her loose blond bun unravels and stray strands stick skew in an unorganized fashion. Her unkempt hair-do makes her appear as one of those types of school teachers worn after a seemingly endless day of chasing pre-scholars who will not listen on the playground. A kind lady is she, always productive and thoughtful. She is a hard working housewife, like all are.

"Yes, good morning Mom," I peck her cheek, her face twitches when the few, short and taunt, chin hairs I have brush her jawline.

"Morning Honey," she smiles sweetly as she turns into the kitchen where I smell toast cooking from the out-of-date toaster.

I follow her into the room, Joel is parked on the far left barstool, and I hop onto the one beside his. He gives me a look, one of slight annoyance, but is empty of threats or warnings. That is a look I have grown accustomed to over the years since entering high school. The "big brother" glare.

The toaster dings, notifying me that my breakfast is ready to be gobbled.

Routinely, as I do every day of the school year, I dig through the fridge for the Land O'Lakes spreadable butter. And, as I have done every weekday for the past two months, I glide the butterknife across the rye.

Sliding the plate with my toast onto the countertop, I weave through the toys left from last night's play session.

Joel finishes his share of toast and is scribbling answers onto his half completed arithmetic homework from the other night. He is one of those 'wait 'till the last minute' people.

"Joel Shelbern, stop that! Mind your manners!" Mom scolds, retrieving a napkin from the cabinet. "Here, you still have some left on your chin." She smiles warmly, her face wrinkles as she chuckles kindly. Her eyes roll in a sarcastic way, but her closed mouth grin remains.

"Sorry Mom. Thanks," he blushes while clearing any excess jam. "I'll see you later, bye," he hustles to his slip on the shoulder straps of his boring, muddy brown, JanSport backpack.

"Bye boys, have a nice day, okay? See you later," Mom yells as we walk out the door.

"Bye Mom, see you later!" Joel and I wave as we trek to our bus stop, which is a good 15 minutes from our house.

The worst part about going to public school is having to walk that far especially when snow falls or rain pellets strike my head. I ought not to complain. Mom reminds us always that folks less fortunate than us do not have the luxury of an education.

Checking my watch, the digital clock reads 7:16 am. The yellow bus always is remarkably prompt. The gas guzzler pulls into the stop at exactly 7:30, unless the unfortunate event of having a substitute. We have plenty of time.

Passing by the bakery, I briefly wave hello to Mr. Weiss, who is sweeping the tiles as his wife Paula is behind the counter, stocking today's baked goods. Mr. Weiss, grins and raises his hand, returning a quiet 'hello' to us. Paula smiles kindly, her wrinkles scrunch when she smiles and nods. This is our daily school day routine, ever since I entered sixth grade and began walking to school with Joel, who is two grades ahead of me.

The bus wheezes as it comes to a steady halt, the doors wobble as Carrie, our middle-aged bus driver, parts the rickety door panels painted with unclean bird poop. The scent of stale air wafts to my nose making my nose squint to vent the oxygen through.

We climb the black steps each greeting her politely as we advance to our chosen seats.

Joel slides in with his buddy, Mark. They rave about last night's football game.

Me, I sit alone in a two-seater, only capable of fitting one person now. I gaze out the small window paying no attention to the billboards and trees whizzing past me. My mind is consumed with the dream I had this morning. That woman, she seems so familiar, like someone I ought to know, but cannot, for the life of me, place.

That woman, in my dream, has dirty blond hair, most of her locks dark. She is definitely Caucasian, but she has a bit of European blood. Maybe one of her ancestors is part English.

She cried so desperately, pleaded and begged for her child's safety. Her face was so vivid, like a frame from an HD photo. Her voice hitched and stammered, succumbing to weakness and then flat out nothing more than sobs. Her arms extended half surrendering and half reaching out for her child.

All throughout the day, I cannot rid my mind of that dream. For example, in Art, I draw a stick figure drawing of that woman. Then in English, I write about her in my class assigned journal. My mind will not let me shut the images off… Maybe the dream is a cosmic sign…

* * *

(Months Later)

I did not have that dream again, until I eventually stopped obsessing over the woman, until I almost forgot.

Then one night, I saw that woman again…

She clings to someone's body, and that person ignores her, as if she is nothing but the spring breeze snapping at his arm. He shoves a smaller person, possibly one of youth, into a vehicle. Yet, the automobile is not large enough to be a truck, not by a long shot! Nor, is the car puny enough to be one of those cute "punch-buggy" Volkswagens, or the "energy saving", cramped lego-like cars.

I cannot determine the color, but I think the four-door is black or maybe navy blue.

Like last time, I dive, pour all of me into deciphering what following should occur in my slowly evolving unconscious, subconscious state. And again, I predict that that dream would not recur until I ceased. All there to do at that point, was guess, fathom. Even though that is never my prefered option, and I would rather be 100% sure, that is the only choice I am allowed to gift myself.

Maybe the woman is begging her husband to stay, and he is reasonably giving her the cold shoulder. After all, the shorter person is complying without such resistance.

I reread the notes on this dream, depicting the text as if I am a private eye on a case. Then again, I am not an actual PI, but I am simply a teenage male finishing preteen stage. Yet, I am on a solo mission.

No, I scratch that notion from my reasoning. A divorced mother would not plead for her child's safety from a custody battle case she lost. That does not seem the least bit rationable.

My mind dawns on the idea that the smaller person maybe a victim of kidnap!. I do not like the scenarios of the vicious accounts of abducting people toying in my brain. But, in all the accounts from kidnap victims, the offenders frighten their victims, and hardly ever do they leave witnesses. They are brazen, cocky in believing and reliant that the witness will be unable to report.

As nights progress, miniscule bits of color begin sneaking into the dream. The vehicle, the man who shoved the smaller person in, is a taxi resembling car. The four door is grey, a sedan with a lifting trunk, and tinted windows that conceals inside.

The plates interest me the most. Wherever these people are, they live outside the states, in another country. I can almost read the state or province of the plate origin, but the black letters and numbers smudge together like one blur.

* * *

I awake with a jerk, cold sweats lining my forehead.

The little person, Her, is a youth. She is merely a child, no older than five. The odd fact is she replicates the mother, a copy cat. That woman must be related to that girl. The barrier intercepting their passable double ganging act is the junior's age.

The girl fashions tiny red bows fastening the ends together. Wearing cute blue jean overalls, stained with bleach in the few splotchy and overly white areas on them. A pink shirt blocks the adjustable straps from resting on her undeveloped chest. Smack in the dead center, a character I recognize from my sister's long dead obsession, sticks on her sternum. The Hello Kitty decal is worn, spots chipped from having been worn down from when the shirt had been prime. The brown eyed girl models pink sandals, the type that protect toes from the harm of crushing by others too focused in their own worlds to duly note the potential injury their weight can cost. The girl's a cutie with sparkling eyes that twinkle and smile when she does. She looks like a cowgirl right out of a storybook who is set to gallop into the sunset. But she is stolen out of that with one shove.

The girl cries, one that is described as a bloody murder scream pierces through my heart, and my whole being aches for her cry to be relieved.

"Mummy! Mummy!" She yelps as if she were a dog squealing for attention. The child sobs vigorously for rescue, but none comes. The roar of the resounding engine from the sedan rumbles to life.

The scene replays from part three of the dream. Every action, cry, and expression of fear and despair recounts as dream four in the series as the nightmare progresses. Witnessing, always frozen in horror and shock of the events unraveling. I do not comprehend why each time I am in the same state in the dream. I remember every intricate detail, and all the lines in the scene. Although the rehearsed act plays consistently, my frame cowers in the shadow of the rustic brown stone. I am not an almighty God viewing from above. That perspective unwilling to allow me access to capture the total film. No, I must stare through my set of eyes as I take in the commotion and chaos. I want to holler a warning, but my mouth will not operate properly.

I hear the shriek of the woman, fighting with tongue language to the man who has his hold on the wailing child. I remember his rougher than necessary shove of the woman to the sidewalk. My heart pangs in guilt, hearing the child's screech as she flushes her nose to the window as her mother pleads for the girl's life. Then the growl of a dormant engine shuttering being propelled to tend to their owner's command to move.

* * *

(Three Months Later)

From dream one to dream five, this time, I finally pick the scum who had the audacity to steal an innocent from the woman. I sketch in my notebook, penciling as much detail as possible.

The man has dirty blond hair, with matching dark green eyes. He wears a baseball cap with an owl on the front.


	3. Chapter Three--First Time in Forever

**Chapter Three-First Time in Forever**

The door slams, giving me a terrible fright. That means one thing. Dad has arrived. I set my novel neatly on my beat bean pillow. I scramble onto my feet in a flash. Recently, Dad has added yet another spontaneous rule.

I jump to the head of my bed, standing attention army cadet style except my head bows almost parallel to the floor. From the corner of my eye, I make out his shadow as it grows in length. I suck in a hushed nervous breath, trembling deep within my core. I do not dare breathe aloud. I shiver while awaiting for his routine inspection.

Dad raises my chin with his forefinger making me anxious. He inspects me as if I was one fruit of many that he is cherry picking though. Glaring at my mug, he avoids my iris completely.

As much as I feel urged to seek refuge in accepting eyes, I refrain from attempting a possibly costly choice.

Finally, his orbs greet mine. But for the first time, in what seems like years, I am unable to gauge his emotion. His stare is blanketed with fog shrouding his tells.

I remain locked in his stare, neither one of us moves a muscle. We are statues, frozen in time. Until, I blink.

Dad smirks, his evil and smug way. The kind that only recently has appeared. The one that is a tell-tale guilty accusation that I have committed a crime, in his eyes, again.

His self-satisfied smile dissolves into a stiff frown. And suddenly he speaks.

"Sit down," he orders, his voice sounding like gravel scraping against tires.

I scamper to follow his order. My bottom plants on the striped sheets.

Heavy breaths echo in the room as he begins to pace the length of my bed. His right fist covers his mouth while he thinks intensely. Thickish brows scowl at the floor. Abruptly, he sharply whips his head to mine. I adjust my posture so it is as straight as a pole.

I am awaiting a word, a signal, something. Dang it just say something already! I sense my impatience boiling. Please. Stop this silence. And finally he does. But prolonging my wait further, he first plops down beside me. He smooths his chin and sighs.

"You need to go to school," he announces with a huff.

"Wh-what?" I stutter in utter surprise. I hear him, but I want assurance.

He barks, "Don't make me freakin repeat myself!" His volume rises two octaves louder with his statement. Bolting to his feet, he begins to pace once more. "But there are rules if you want to go." He waits a beat, and then blurts, "So?"

"Yes Daddy, may I go to school please?" I ask meekly.

"Fine. But I swear to God, if you disobey any of my rules I will remove you from that school so fast. Why, you won't know what happened," he threatens with a half amused voice.

I nod eagerly, a smile slowly creeping onto my face.

"My rules still apply outside of home, understand?"

"Yes Daddy."

"Well, you're not going anywhere in that," he retorts. "Let's go, come on, hurry up now."

I start to follow his footsteps out the door, for the first time in forever. And oh, this experience feels remarkable. My feet scrape against the wooden platforms I rarely ever tread. The nails spewing hazardly cautions my steps. I stick close behind Dad as we continue upward.

Dad stops at the top and reveals a hidden key from his pant pocket. The shine from the led flashlight attached on the keyring shines on the doorknob. The golden piece of metal plunges into the zigzag crack. He twists the key and jingles the handle. Booting the aged plank, the wood staggers ajar. An awful sound erupts. That sound reminds me of the toilet plunger when I press the handle to flush. But I do not complain, as a proper lady ought not to do.

He shoves the door wide open, and all at once, my eyes start stinging.

Dad slams shut the car door after I am seated comfortably next to him. The engine grumbles alive, unhappy. Grey, I name the car, would rather be resting than transporting. Alas, Grey rumbles as he slinks out the driveway.

Trees whiz by me, many of them bare. Their leaves gathered at the roots. We drive a mile before I observe a creature like Dad. A man in blue slacks treks in the dead grass. In his mouth a long cylinder pokes from his lips.

"Daddy?" I say softly.

"Yeah?" His focus is fixated on the road ahead.

"What's that thing in that man's mouth?"

Dad shifts his attention to the walking stick. He grunts unamused.

"You don't need to know. But if I ever find one in your mouth, you won't have to worry about wondering anymore." Our conversation ends. He turns left at a house on the corner.

A few blocks further, I catch a street light glowing red. Dad eases his foot off gas. As Grey comes to a complete stop, a different car worms next to Dad's window. A woman is seated shotgun, next to the man who is driving. They do not acknowledge us, but speed ahead when the bulb switches to green. Grey jolts forward, past the white line on the black gravel.

Soon enough, signs appear on the billboards off on the side of the road. The big logo on my burgers is pictured on one of them. Beside the photo, milage directs that the place is only half a mile ahead. We pass the notice as more cars slink to appear on both sides of us.

Grey crosses into a town, chock full of small business shops that scale the sidewalks.

We pull into the parking lot of a petite boutique The store is covered with glass windows. In the display case an adorable plain black dress with crew cut sleeves styles a pale white manikin.

A banner overhead reads, "Sale 20-40% off."

"Be on your best behavior, I expect nothing less," Dad reminds with an underlying warning. "You stay beside me at all times. I want you in my sight. You here?"


End file.
